


when you’re under the gun

by glundergun (cleardishwashers)



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleardishwashers/pseuds/glundergun
Summary: sum soft(ish) deetress
Relationships: Dee Reynolds/The Waitress (It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	when you’re under the gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleasantserenity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasantserenity/gifts).



Sometimes she thinks that the Waitress is the only one who’d ever understand her. Nobody else has come as close as the Waitress has to getting ensnared in the fucked-up web that is the five of them, except for maybe Cricket. But Cricket’s a weirdo, and the Waitress is— well, less so. Maybe, in another life, Dee and the Waitress could be friends.

Definitely not in this one, though, if Dee’s beer-soaked shirt is anything to go by. “What the shit?!” she yells. “What the actual fucking—”

“Oh, fuck  _ off,” _ the Waitress slurs, swaying back and forth on the front step of her shitty apartment building, her now-empty bottle dangling dangerously from two fingers. “Ev- every time  _ you _ come here I end up getting even fucked-er!”

_ “More _ fucked, not fucked-er, idiot,” Dee hisses. “And how the— I was literally just walking home!”

“Noyawerent!” the Waitress yells, her words smashing into each other with all the finesse of an elephant.

“Jesus Christ, you are  _ sloshed,” _ Dee says. Despite herself, she feels a tiny strand of pity worm its way into her heart. “Just— put the bottle down.”

“Okay,” the Waitress says, and then she throws the bottle onto the ground as hard as she can. The brown glass shatters against the concrete, sending shards every which way. Dee really should’ve expected that.

“Jesus Christ, Waitress,” Dee sighs.

“How the  _ fuck _ do you— do you not know my goddamn name?” the Waitress says. “It’s been  _ five years!” _

“It’s definitely been more than five years.”

“Well, tha— tha’s even fuckin’ worse!”

“Jesus Christ, shut  _ up,” _ Dee says. She gingerly steps around the shards before looping her arm around the Waitress’s waist. She’s warm, surprisingly, given that the temperature is below freezing. “What’s your apartment number?”

“Suck my ass,” the Waitress sneers.

“I’m trying to  _ help _ you, dickfoot!” Dee exclaims. She pulls the Waitress up the steps and into what could just barely qualify as the lobby, and then she tries again. “What number?”

“Sixty-nine,” the Waitress says, leering.

“Christ. I’m gonna leave.”

“Nononono— do you have any more beer? Or crack? Oh, please tell me you have crack.”

“I’ll give you crack if you tell me your apartment number.”

“Fine! 420.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“No, seriously!” the Waitress insists. “‘M bein’ serious!”

Dee stares at her for a minute.  _ Her eyes are pretty, _ whispers the stupid voice in the back of her head.  _ Shut up, _ Dee tells the voice. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They stumble up the stairs, the Waitress a dead weight around Dee’s shoulders. By the second floor, Dee is sweating, and by the third, she’s considering just leaving the Waitress on the landing. They stagger up to the fourth floor, and when she does this with Mac or Dennis or Charlie and they sing into her ear it’s just annoying, but now the Waitress is doing the singing— some horribly botched rendition of Under the Sea— and it actually sounds kind of nice.

Maybe she’s a little drunk, too, even though she’s been drinking just beer all day.

The door is mercifully unlocked, and from the somewhat sad state of the one-room apartment, Dee’s fairly confident that this is actually the Waitress’s apartment and not someone else’s. “Okay. If I put you to bed—”

“Buy me a drink first,” the Waitress says, a loose, somewhat creepy smile spreading across her face.

“You’ve had enough drinks. Will you puke and choke and die if I leave you here?”

“Hmm… yes. You need to stay. And you need to give me crack.”

“I don’t have any crack.”

“You said—”

“Well, I lied.” Dee pushes the Waitress onto the bed in the corner, and she flops, limp, onto the pillows. “You don’t need anything else in your system.”

“But you’re staying, right?” the Waitress asks.

It’s a shitty apartment with shitty furniture in a shitty neighborhood where someone is likely to shoot through the windows at any moment. Dee’s had a long day. All she wants to do is go home. “Fine. Scoot over.” The Waitress moves over about a millimeter, and Dee rolls her eyes. “Do I have to do everything?”

“Yes,” the Waitress declares.

Dee pushes her to the other side of the mattress and then lies down on the newly-exposed, scuzzy sheets. She tries to ignore the fact that her heart rate is elevated and her skin is tingling at every point of contact with the Waitress. The moonlight is shining through the cracked, uncovered window, washing the Waitress’s face with silver. “G’night,” Dee says. She wishes that Charlie had never started stalking the Waitress. She wishes that she’d befriended the Waitress when they’d worked at that restaurant together. She wishes that she’d paid attention in high school and actually learned the Waitress’s name. She wishes a lot of things, but now she’s a 45-year-old alcoholic, quasi-proprietor of a failing bar—

“My name is Annie,” the Waitress says.

Dee’s heart skips a beat. It’s a good name for her. “Nice to know you, Annie.”


End file.
